


no one has ever looked at me (that way)

by ToAStranger



Series: we'll all float on [2]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Established Relationship, Homophobic Language, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Minor Violence, More like teases of sexual content, very brief - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:27:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29348118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToAStranger/pseuds/ToAStranger
Summary: Billy Hargrove recognizes danger on sight.It was bred into him, he thinks.  Something in the blood-- nature, rather than nurture-- something that burns and stirs and awakens in the presence of it.  A thrill.  A hunger.So, when Billy Hargrove sees Steve Harrington for the first time, he knows that it is dangerous.  He just doesn’t particularly care.Sequel and companion to "i think of you (i want you, too) i'd fall for you."
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Series: we'll all float on [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2155749
Comments: 12
Kudos: 151





	no one has ever looked at me (that way)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CastelloMargot56](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CastelloMargot56/gifts).



> Happy Birthday, Harringrovelove. 
> 
> Just a 3 times Billy tried to tell Steve he loved him and 1 time Steve beat him to the punch fic.

Billy Hargrove recognizes danger on sight. 

It was bred into him, he thinks. Something in the blood-- nature, rather than nurture-- something that burns and stirs and awakens in the presence of it. A thrill. A hunger. 

The Doc told him, once, that he was an adrenaline junkie. That one too many knocks in the head, delivered at the hands of his father, must’ve knocked something loose. A screw or three. Sometimes, it made him reckless. 

It makes him dangerous. 

So, when Billy Hargrove sees Steve Harrington for the first time, he knows that it is dangerous. He just doesn’t particularly care. 

*

“You ever think we did things a little  _ too  _ backwards?” 

They’re sitting on the floor, in the kitchen, a carton of mint chocolate chip passing between their hands. Steve is propped against the steel of the fridge, half naked, stripped down to a pair of Billy’s boxer briefs and a worn sweater that has dark cat hairs clinging to the cuffs. Steve is watching him, mulling over his question with a mouthful of sweet cream, eyes dark and warm and kind and as sharp as ever in the dim light. 

Billy sits across from him, shirt open and tie long discarded, otherwise as put together as ever-- if you didn’t include the sweat drying on his skin or the open state of his fly. His hair has come loose from its usual style, curls hanging over his forehead. Steve licks another bite of ice cream into his mouth as he stares at him; his wedding band looks silver in the moonlight. 

“Having second thoughts?” Steve asks. 

“No,” Billy shakes his head and thinks:  _ never.  _

He has never, will never, have second thoughts about pursuing Steve. Hasn’t doubted his decision once; not since he spotted Steve working as a busboy at one of his favorite restaurants, too pretty and too bright to be wasting away doing something so tediously mundane. So beneath him. 

The keen awareness, the dangerous edge, of Steve’s gaze dulls some. A dangerous animal regarding another and choosing to trust it. 

It takes Billy’s breath, steals it away, every time he realizes that Steve has chosen him. That, after everything, after all the strange hoops and contracts and potential threats, Steve has chosen  _ him.  _

He left a last name behind him when he ran from his past, and he took Billy’s instead. 

“Worried I am?” Steve asks, gentler this time. 

Billy’s mouth presses into a grimace. “Sometimes.” 

It’s been months since Steve told him about the scars on his back. Months since Steve told him he didn’t want to pretend anymore. Months of wanting Steve. Of having him. 

Steve seems to mull that over. He stabs his spoon into the carton, into a lump of melted green, and sets it aside. Shifts onto his knees and crawls over the tile floor until he’s shuffling himself into Billy’s space. Until he’s got his boney knees on either side of Billy’s hips, weight settling like a warm blanket, hands cold against the sides of Billy’s throat. Billy tilts his face up, bares himself to dark eyes, and grins. 

“Anyone ever tell you that you worry too much?” Steve asks, gaze flitting over Billy’s face, mouth mirroring Billy’s own, before he dips down to press his lips, still sweet from their midnight snack, against Billy’s own. “When have I ever kept my mouth shut when you piss me off?” 

“Never,” Billy says, and he’d be lying if the reassurance Steve presses against his face in slow, sweet kisses wasn’t a relief. “Not once. You threw your dirty socks at me, once.” 

“Better than shooting you.” 

Billy barks out a laugh. His hands find Steve’s hips. 

“You hate guns,” Billy replies, nosing at Steve’s temple as lips press cold to his jaw. 

“I could shoot you if I had to,” Steve mutters, soft, almost like an apology. 

Billy’s grip tightens. He knows what Steve means. Knows that he won’t let someone else leave anymore scars on his pale skin. 

Billy would probably beat him to that particular punch, if it ever came down to it. 

Teeth find his pulse. Billy jerks. His hands sneak up under the hem of Steve’s sweater. He sighs his name, once, into the dark of the kitchen. 

“Never gonna have to,” Billy says-- promises-- and knows he’d rather die than see any promise he’s made to Steve broken. “Steve, I…” 

“I know,” Steve hums, leaning back, smile small as he cups Billy’s face between his palms so that he can drag his thumbs against Billy’s cheeks. “Take me to bed?” 

Billy doesn’t need to be asked twice. 

*

Most days, Billy hates Steve’s loft. Hates what it represents-- Steve’s back-up, Steve’s fear, Steve’s reluctance to let go of an escape plan. He understands it, but he hates it. Hates that, because of his history, Steve feels he needs to have it; hates that he hasn’t reassured Steve enough to go without it. 

Today, he doesn’t hate it. 

Today, he’s glad that Steve isn’t here, isn’t  _ home, _ to witness this. 

There’s blood on the carpet. Broken glass in the foyer. Billy’s knuckles are bruised again.

In front of him, on his knees in his office, a man who used to work for his father stares balefully up at him. His face is bruised, his lip split, and Billy doesn’t doubt his wrists are raw from pulling at the ziptie keeping him bound. Impotent. 

“If yer father were ‘round, Hargrove,” the man clicks his tongue and then spits. 

Doesn’t need to finish his sentence. Billy knows exactly what the world, his world, would look like if Billy’s father were still around. 

It was why he shot him between the eyes five years ago, after all. 

In the doorway, Tommy glances at Billy and then at the man on his knees, his nose wrinkled up in distaste. He knows that, if he let him, Tommy would tear into this man without a thought. Tommy’s always been a good right hand. Loyal to those who earn it. 

Billy earned it. 

“If my father were around,” Billy says, pulling the kerchief from his pocket, grinning with all his teeth when the brief disappearance of his hand into his pants earns a flinch, even as he leaves his gun untouched and holstered and very visible against his side. “We probably wouldn’t be having this conversation.” 

The man smiles, blood on his teeth, and tilts his chin up like the admittance is somehow  _ his  _ victory. “Damn right, we wouldn’t.” 

“We wouldn’t,” Billy agrees with a nod, wiping his knuckles clean of spittle and blood that isn’t his own. “Because you’d already be dead.” 

He knows, by the flinch and the averted eyes, that the man wants to say something about how Billy is  _ soft.  _ It was a common complaint, back when his dad ran the show. 

It would also be a challenge. And they all know, this man included, that it is never wise to challenge Billy. 

Something firms in his jaw as Billy watches him, though. Something stupid; something dangerous. Whatever he’s about to say, whatever he’s decided on, will be his final words. 

Then, the front door opens. 

“--really shouldn’t be here, Steve.” 

Carol.  _ Steve.  _

Billy straightens up, from his casual lean against the edge of his desk, eyes on the doorway between his office and the entryway. Doesn’t look away, not for a moment, even as dread pits in his stomach. Even as Steve rounds the doorjamb, shrugging off Carol’s cautioning hand, wrapped up in the dark wool of Billy’s newest present to him to fight off the early spring chill still clinging to the Chicago streets. 

Even as Steve freezes in the hallway, eyes wide and cheeks flush and hair a mess from the wind, as he sees Billy. As he sees the violence Billy has brought home with him. 

“Baby,” Billy says, as much a plea as it is a cautious greeting. 

Steve stares at him. He huffs, blinks, and then sets down the shopping bag in his hand at his feet. 

His hands are shaking. Billy wants to gather him close to his chest and kiss away the fear. 

“What is this?” Steve asks. 

Billy’s throat feels tight. “A discussion,” he says. 

Steve’s brows go up. “About?” 

“Loyalty.” 

Steve hums. Carefully, with Tommy and Carol frozen and watching, Steve steps into Billy’s office. 

He’s gorgeous, even in this. Pale cheeks warming to a flush-- from the warmth of the suite or from the frustration hiding in his eyes, Billy doesn’t properly know-- and shoulders held very still and very straight. He seems taller, bigger than usual, like a chest expanding on a full breath. 

His eyes-- those lovely, dark things-- take in everything. The spilt alcohol and the broken glass. The open file on the coffee table, papers spilled everywhere. The man, shifting on his knees, in front of Billy. They linger, though, on Billy’s knuckles. On his bare forearms, sleeves cuffed up and jacket discarded; on the hollow of his throat, tie loose and collar unbuttoned. 

“Loyalty,” Steve repeats, dragging his gaze from Billy and to the man before him; a man not worth a moment of Steve’s time or attention. “Disloyalty?” 

Billy clears his throat. “Yes.” 

Steve stares at the man. Stares at him, in the heavy and haunting silence, until the leech finally looks away. Billy would be impressed with his survival instincts if he wasn’t already on the chopping block-- if he’d said anything, sneered the wrong way, Billy would have his tongue. 

Steve glances at him, mouth twitching, like perhaps he  _ knows.  _

“Finish quickly and clean up your mess,” Steve says, with something like steel in his voice, even as he starts to unbutton his coat and move toward the hallway. “Dinner will be ready in an hour.” 

Billy closes his eyes. Lets out a breath. His heart is racing. 

_ “Soft,” _ the man spits. “Fuckin’  _ faggot,  _ runnin’ this business into the damn ground. Yer father--” 

Billy reaches back into his pocket. The flinch of fear is earned, this time, when he pulls out a pocket knife and flicks it open. When he steps forward, grips the man by the hair on the top of his head to wrench it back, and sinks the blade up under the soft spot of his jaw-- drives it upward and inward, until it lodges somewhere in the roof of his mouth. Until he’s sputtering and coughing up blood. Until his eyes bulge and his face drains of all color. 

He leaves the blade where it’s caught. Leaves it and lets go; watches as the man collapses onto his side and convulses and chokes. 

“You really should watch your mouth,” Billy says and gestures with two fingers. “Tommy, Carol. Get rid of this.” 

“Yes, sir.” Carol breathes, moving quick, silent apology written over every motion; Steve wasn’t supposed to come home today, and Carol shouldn’t have let him in. 

Billy ignores them both as they get to work. He knows she’ll see that she’s forgiven, for now. 

He makes his way toward the kitchen. 

Steve is at the counter. His head is bowed over a cut of meat, a knife in his hand, looking soft in jeans and a t-shirt and socks. His shoes and his coat are nowhere to be seen; Billy imagines they’re in the bedroom. Billy must look like a nightmare in comparison. 

He hovers in the doorway, just at the edge of the light. 

After watching Steve work for a few more moments, he clears his throat. “I didn’t expect you.” 

“It was supposed to be a surprise,” Steve replies; doesn’t look up. 

Billy sucks in a sharp breath. “I’m sorry, Steve. I--” 

All of the knives in Billy’s kitchen are kept sharp. He likes them that way. Steve had laughed when Billy told him about the monthly appointment to keep them up to par. 

He slaps it down onto the counter, metal on marble, and hisses in a breath as he pushes it away from himself. Like he’s afraid he might be tempted to use it. 

Billy takes a step forward. 

“Don’t,” Steve snaps, squeezing his eyes shut a moment, then wetting his lips and looking up. “Don’t, Billy. You don’t have to make-- You don’t have to apologize.” 

“I do,” Billy insists; he sees Steve shudder, sees him eye his hands and his forearms again. “I do because this is our home. I shouldn’t have brought him here.” 

“You should’ve  _ warned me,”  _ Steve corrects, giving a shake of his head. “I know what you are, Billy. I know  _ who you are.  _ Don’t apologize. Just  _ warn me.”  _

Billy’s ribs feel too small. This man-- this beautiful, dangerous, ridiculous man-- has the capacity to make Billy feel so  _ much.  _

“I will,” Billy nods, padding closer and closer, and Steve is watching him like he’s being hunted-- or, perhaps, haunted. He wonders what terrible nightmare this scene has brought back to Steve. “I will. I promise.” 

“Okay,” Steve’s head bobs as his throat works. “Okay, good. Because, otherwise, I’m gonna get real bitchy about it.”

“Steve,” Billy says, and he cannot help the smile that begins to pull at his mouth as he gets close enough to touch. “Baby.  _ Sweetheart,  _ I--” 

Steve snorts and jabs two fingers against Billy’s chest. “Shut up. Go shower. I know.” 

Beaming, Billy dips forward and presses a kiss to Steve’s cheek. Steve’s lashes flutter as he takes a deep breath. As he turns into it, fighting a smile of his own. 

_ “Go,”  _ he says, again, pushing at Billy’s shoulder. “We’ll talk at dinner.” 

And Billy goes.

*

“Why the women’s clothes?” 

Billy blinks, hand stilling on Steve’s side, mouth at his bare shoulder. Steve is faced away from him, toward the closet, hands pillowed under his head, sheets spilled around his hips, sweat drying on his skin and in his hair. Billy’s not much better. 

“What do you mean?” he asks, and resumes tracing the lines of Steve’s ribs with his fingertips. 

Steve huffs, and then he’s twisting around onto his back so that he can narrow his eyes up at Billy. Billy is weak to those eyes.  _ Dangerous.  _

“The-- the panties and the dresses and the heels and-- I mean.” Steve wets his lips, cheeks going a touch pink. “Why is it all  _ here?  _ Did you-- Was there someone else?” 

“No,” Billy dismisses, easily and honestly, spreading himself out over Steve’s chest so that he can loop an arm around his waist to tug him closer on the bed. “Just you. Always you.” 

Steve’s face goes a shade deeper, but his smile is sweet when he gives it. “Big Bad Billy Hargrove,” he chides, fond, pliant. “Closet romantic.” 

“We’re married. Who needs romance?” Billy grins, wolfish and pleased when Steve barks out a laugh. “Just the truth.” 

“Tell me the truth, then.” Steve says, brows arched, and Billy can see hints of a spoiled prince of a boy still in him, sometimes, like this. “Why are they here?” 

“Didn’t know what you’d like,” Billy admits with a bit of a wince, tilting his head. “Didn’t know if you’d like those kinds of things. Got everything. Just in case.” 

Steve reaches up, then. Takes Billy’s jaw in hand. Kisses him once. 

“You didn’t get them for you?” 

Billy pulls back an inch, his own brows going up. “Would you like that?” 

Steve laughs, again. He shoves at Billy’s face, twists their weight, and Billy hums as Steve turns them until he’s bracing his hands against Billy’s abdomen and resting over his hips. The sheets are all atangle. 

_ “Not  _ what I was asking,” Steve says, tracing over the white skin of the scar on Billy’s side with his fingertips. “Did you get them because you wanted me to wear them? Because you wanted to-- to see me in them?” 

Laying back, looking up at the gorgeous creature above him, Billy smiles. He rests his hands on Steve’s thighs. He thumbs at the jut of bone at his hips. 

“I want to see you in everything,” Billy says, then squeezes at his hips. “But mostly I like seeing you in nothing.” 

Steve huffs, but leans down and rewards him with a kiss. “Big Bad Billy Hargrove. Blatant hedonist.” 

“Guilty.” 

Steve kisses him again. Billy gets a bit lost in it. 

In the weight of Steve laying himself over Billy’s chest. In the slide and press of his mouth. In the way his fingers tangle in Steve’s hair. 

“I would, you know,” Steve tells him, trailing his mouth along Billy’s jaw. “If you wanted me to, I would.” 

Billy groans, twists them back over, and crowds Steve down onto the bed.  _ “Baby,  _ don’t  _ tease.”  _

“Just ask,” Steve laughs against his mouth as Billy tries to lick his way inside. “Just ask, Billy.” 

“I adore you,” Billy grins. “I--” 

“You’re gonna shut up and fuck me,” Steve says, already arching up under him. 

And, really, who is Billy to argue with that? 

*

Billy Hargrove recognizes danger on sight. 

It was bred into him, he thinks. Something in the blood-- nature, rather than nurture-- something that burns and stirs and awakens in the presence of it. A thrill. A hunger. 

So, when Billy Hargrove met Steve Harrington, he knew he was in danger. Knew that this man-- beautiful and cautious and kind and deadly-- could make or break him. 

So, when Billy is sitting with him in their living room, petting Steve’s cat Binx with careful fingers, Steve watching him from across the couch, he knows that he’s in danger. 

“I love you,” Steve tells him, dark eyes warm and endless, toes tucked under Billy’s thigh. “I know you know-- like I know. But I wanted to say it.” 

Billy wants to crack open his chest and hand Steve his beating heart. 

“I’ve loved since the moment I saw you,” Billy says. 

Steve laughs, head back, and he kicks him. “Liar.” 

Billy grins. “Never, baby. Not ever.” 


End file.
